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Mad Season in Twilight
category:Classic OtherSpace Logs The revolution of Mars brought it to the brink of all out war with the Solar Consortium, and now the two sides meet aboard the sentient starship Galactix to discuss terms of peace... Flight Deck - Deck 1 - Galactix 2000 This flight deck looks wide enough to service 5 squadrons of fighters, and still have enough room to land 4 scouts or 2 destroyer size ships. Fighters are lined up along the side walls, while several shuttles are parked randomly around the bay. The flight control tower is a blister which overhangs the main entrance, accessible through a stairway which leads up from the flight deck along the back wall. The enormous bay doors slowly begin to slide open ... Through the bay doors, the MRD Falstaff comes in and docks. Vandervere exits from the MRD Falstaff. Vandervere has arrived. Dykstra exits from the MRD Falstaff. Dykstra has arrived. Frost exits from the MRD Falstaff. Frost has arrived. Dykstra steps down the ramp, to the side and a little behind Vandervere. Carter-DeVille exits from the MRD Falstaff. Carter-DeVille has arrived. Frost strides off the ramp beside Dykstra, scanning the deck slowly. Lambrick exits from the MRD Falstaff. Lambrick has arrived. Blades stands on the flight deck with Admiral Nash, flanked by eight Guardian Fleet soldiers who stand four on each side, armed with plasma rifles and decked out in body armor. The president himself smiles tightly as he watches the individuals emerging from the former Fleet vessel. The assembled personnel are gathered in the vicinity of a makeshift meeting area, with a conference table, chairs and holographic vid monitors. The flags of the Solar Consortium and Martian Republic are on posts at either end of the table. Vandervere descends from the Falstaff, the First Consul accompanied by a security team conspicuously devoid of the rather nefarious Praetor Neidermeyer. But then, everything about this encounter is conspicuous, from the First Consul's obvious suit of battle armour still donned to the questionable vessel which he has arrived in. Silent statements made, points conveyed. A computerized voice overhead speaks: "Welcome aboard Galactix. I am pleased to serve in this capacity of peace." Vandervere nods to the disembodied voice, adopting a genial grin. "Hello again, Galactix." Blades nods curtly, stepping forward from the assembly of soldiers, hands at his side, facing Vandervere. He lifts his chin, smiles slightly and says, "First Consul, glad you could make it." He can't seem to help but look at Falstaff again. His eyes drift toward Dykstra. He nods. Then looks back at Vandervere again. "Shall we proceed?" He gestures toward the table. Vandervere sweeps a hand towards the table, bidding the President of the Consortium, "After you, Mr. Blades." Flanking the First Consul is a tall, honey-espresso skinned woman in the severe black uniform of the Martian Legion, her inch-long geometric crewcut only serving to highlight the angularity of both her build and features. Her name tag, a white-lettered black affair, reads 'CARTER-DEVILLE'. Behind her, a contingent 10 soldiers strong spread out to either side of the table, forming a semi-circle behind the seating arrangement and still within close proximity of Vandervere. All bear side-arms and grim-faced expressions. Blades nods, then makes his way toward the table. He takes the chair directly in front of the Solar Consortium flag. He looks at Nash. "Admiral." He nods toward the chair to his left. Dykstra follows the Consul over to the table, offering only a brief glance in Nash's direction. Nash nods to teh President and walks over to the motioned chair and takes a seat, the four guards assigned to him moving in unison Vandervere takes a seat at the table and bids his security team follow suit. Wasting no time on pleasantries, the First Consul of Mars looks towards blades and suggests pointedly, "Let's get started." Blades steeples his fingers, leans back in his chair. "All right. We're done fighting. I think you're done fighting. The madmen who brought us to this point are dead and gone. So, it is critical that we begin moving forward into the future, rather than spinning in circles in the present and past. Do you agree?" Vandervere sighs slightly. "President Blades, the Martian Republic never /began/ fighting, but we are glad that you have ceased and seek to see a lasting peace established." Dykstra adjusts his uniform, his stern, scrutinous gaze passing over the deck, studying everyone carefully. Blades arches his eyebrows. "First Consul, turning the gunstars against Earth ships and declaring your world off limits may not be an invasion, but it *is* hostile. Both sides served as aggressors, either politically or militarily." Frost takes up position near Dykstra, expression unreadable as he listens to the exchange. Vandervere notes quite pointedly, "Mr. President, Mars has sought peace since Earth declared war. There is no reason to nit-pick and ruin our chances of peace now that it is finally possible. We have a golden opportunity for the future presented us here, and the Martian people for one intend to secure it." At the First Consul's other side is a man who still looks quite young, bearing upon his uniform the simple legend: 'LAMBRICK'. He stands in the at-ease position so typical to the military, his eyes watching the other side like a grim-faced rugby player looking up from a huddle. The very sternness and stiffness with which he stands there may well betray how overwhelmed he is to be at such proceedings, even from the comforting refuge that is duty. The Martian Legion security detail has by now fallen into a stiff at-ease, although their vigilance is nonetheless as tight and keen as ever. The Guardian Fleet soldiers are given some narrow-eyed, wary looks, but the soldiers, by and large, are far too disciplined to make a spectacle out of even that. Carter-DeVille, still flanking Vandervere from two paces away, looks grimly stone-faced. A brief slant of her eyes towards Lambrick across from her, but that is all. If women could tower, she towers. Abundantly. Blades taps the tips of his fingers together, smiling thinly. "Nitpicking?" He chuckles. His eyes drift to the Falstaff, and he points at it. "You aided and abetted defectors from the Guardian Fleet in their theft of that starship!" He shakes his head, grinning ruefully. "I'm not nitpicking, my good Consul, but I am telling you that this semantics game of yours is counterproductive. If we're going to move forward, it helps to start at a point of equanimity: Let us acknowledge that both sides could have handled matters better, and build on that." Dykstra's gaze shifts to Blades, the slightest hint of a smirk on his face. Vandervere glowers across the table and answers tersely, "Mars has always stood and continues to stand for peace. Let us move forward, President Blades. It is always difficult to examine one's failures in the face, is it not? But you must and we must in order to move forward." Blades smiles tightly, shaking his head. "Consul, Mars has not stood for peace. It has stood for its own independence and sovereignty, regardless of the cost. If you stood for peace, you never would have conducted yourselves in this way. A government that stands for peace does not steal another government's property or abscond with its military officers. But, certainly, a government that wants to ensure its *freedom* and *independence* may do this. The distinction is an important one. At this moment, you stand for peace. I stand for peace. But neither of our governments stood for peace until now." A burly Martian Legion soldier with a build like a beefy quarterback and a nametag bearing the legend 'HARRISON' twitches his nose spasmodically, trying to keep his facial contortions within a minimum, as if he's about to let out a hearty sneeze but refusing to acknowledge the blighted thing. For a tense, tense moment it appears that the sneeze might master him, but he manages to get control of it and thus the disaster is avoided. Whether or not the ongoing dialogue is being received in best possible grace by the Legion's security unit is moot in view of their expressionlessness, but it's almost a given that everything is being listened to very carefully. Vandervere leans forward slightly across the table. "Mr. Blades, the record shows that the Martian Government in no way encouraged the theft of the Falstaff. We accepted it, yes, as a gesture of men who were fighting against a tyrant and destroying his entire military force with every action taken. Mars was the first to offer diplomatic overtures, Mars was the voice of reason and peace when Earth cried for nothing but war and blockade. Mars has never wavered, Mr. Blades, but if it will get you past this stumbling block then interpret matters however you will. The rest of the galaxy which has had to witness this farce has interpreted them far differently." Blades smiles faintly. "Has it? The rest of the galaxy didn't have its warships hijacked. And the rest of the galaxy got a story colored by spin doctors on both sides. So...let us simply state, for the record, that Mars prompted this crisis by its aggressive and highly publicized withdrawal from the Solar Consortium - and its hype campaign. Granted, our side had its own propaganda spinning around the solar system, but at least I'm not so proud as to deny it." Vandervere shakes his head in obstinacy. "I will not commit Mars towards the blame for initiating this conflict, Mr. Blades. That rests entirely upon your predecessors. Mars would never have seceeded were it not for their heavy-handed and self-destructive policies. We did what we had to, in order to secure a peace for our own people, at whatever cost. This was not pride, Mr. Blades. It was not aggression or initiation of conflict. It was survival." Blades chuckles. "What's the difference? And now who's playing games with words? Come now, don't be coy. What is survival but a jackal backed into a corner by a predator and lashing out with what weapons it might possess to bring that predator down? It is aggression. It is conflict. You struck a blow - repeated blows - and the result brings us to this point in time." Carter-DeVille's brows draw together very slightly at this. Blades is given careful scrutiny, albeit with delicate, guarded subtlety. Vandervere in turn receives much of the same treatment, before her expression returns to its stony serenity once more. Even though they are supposed to pretend that they can't hear a word being said, all of the men of the Martian security detail can hear them, which is doubly true for Lambrick, standing a scant few paces away. The muscles of his jaw work for a few minutes, bulging whenever he clenches his teeth together, and for all that he keeps his eyes off the two leaders discussing their attempts at peace, his ears should be burning for how hard he listens. Eventually the young legionary relaxes to the point of no longer showing any outward sign of what might be going on in his head, for all that he still stands there stiffly. Vandervere replies icily, "Words spoken much like Presidents Romero and Pryde, Mr. Blades, the very men who brought us to this end. When the predators seek to destroy the entire Solar System with their bloodlust, it is not aggression to fight back. It is common sense and dignity and honour." He exhales a heavy sigh and makes a cutting gesture through the air with his hand dismissively, "If you are going to stop harping on this, then let us move forward. If not, you are convincing no one at this table that Earth truly desires peace.". Blades quirks his mouth into a wry smile. "Ah, the victim till the end." He nods slowly. "Fine, First Consul, in the interest of peace, I'll cease 'harping' on the facts that led us to this place. Regardless of your role in this quagmire, I *do* happen to want to put it behind us. As I have stated, quite publicly, we have ceased hostilities and agreed to recognize your sovereignty. But we would certainly like to receive compensation for the theft of the Falstaff." Vandervere quirks a brow in rather dry amusement. "And what sort of ... compensation would you suggest, Mr. President?" Blades smiles faintly. "The cost to build a replacement seems amenable to me." A pert-nosed, freckle-faced platinum-haired lass of the Martian security detail, Kowalski from her nametag, tightens her jaw a bit as the two political leaders thresh things out. Beside her, a lanky blue-eyed lamp-post of a soldier with the unfortunate appellation of Dingus makes something like a very soft growl in his throat although it might be mere imagination and lots of discipline. Vandervere hardly seems engendered to the idea. "Give us a ballpark quote for such a cost." Blades glances toward Nash. "Admiral, estimated cost for a destroyer?" Nash looks between Vandervere and Blades, almost trying to fake the numbers off the top of his head. "I'm not sure of an exact figure, but a couple million sounds about right" Blades nods, looking toward the First Consul. "Two million crebar in restitution for the Falstaff." Dykstra looks evenly at Nash, apparently, as out of character as it seems, stifling a laugh. Vandervere snorts indignantly. "The Martian Republic will not pay so outrageous a sum, no." Blades sighs, then stands. "I see. Well, then I suppose we have nothing left to discuss. Naturally, the cease fire will stand, for now. But you will continue to operate as a rogue state, and the Falstaff will be considered stolen property, with orders to be confiscated as soon as a Consortium patrol encounters it." He smiles slightly. "I won't order it seized now because this is neutral ground, and I respect the desires of our host to preserve peace while we're here." Dykstra turns a bemused gaze back to Blades. For a moment, it almost seems as if the tall dark-skinned woman flanking the First Consul is about to /snort/ mightily in elephantine manner, from the expression on her face. That she doesn't is due to sheer drill and military discipline, not to mention the consequences if she did do such a rude thing. She holds her peace, the lines of her jaw tightening significantly as she eyes Blades from her peripheral vision. Rather like someone studying a cut in a butcher's shop. Vandervere rises as well and replies, "I should like to see you attempt it, Mr. Blades. It is clear that Earth must not desire peace if it is going to let something as insignificant as a battleship impede the course of negotiations. A sad reality, but it would seem that the Consortium is incapable of breeding anything but tyrants." Dykstra steps back as the Consul rises. Blades chuckles. "Insignificant? The cost of rebuilding a new ship is not insignificant in the wake of all this, Consul." Blades shrugs. "It is unfortunate that your freedom and independence are not worth two million crebar. A small price, considering the alternative." Vandervere cocks his head to one side. "Is it not? I think it is when you compare it with the lives of millions of millions inhabiting our worlds. Two million crebars is outrageous. Absolutely unthinkable, and far and above anything which is required to restore your military to full strength. But then, that's where the Consortium's interests have always lain, in their military and its ability to conquer." With little to no idea of the scale of cost involved in military vessels, Lambrick shows no particular reaction to the sum. Certainly it is a great deal of money, but a great deal of money is what he would expect a vessel like the Falstaff to cost. But there is no further thought for this, for as the First Consul rises he snaps to attention. his eyes now attentive, warily so, upon the Consortium delegation. Blades shakes his head. "Not to conquer. To defend itself against aggressors." He lifts his chin and clasps his hands behind his back. "Sadly, it appears Mars will remain one of those. Unless you are willing to counteroffer with what you consider a 'reasonable' payment." Vandervere smiles a bit smugly. "Mars will pay five hundred thousand crebars and not one more, Mr. President. That is well over two thirds what it would cost to build one." The rest of the Martian security contingent comes to attention also at Vandervere's rising. They're all tense, every man and woman of that team of ten, watching and waiting and keeping an eye on the Guardian Fleeters with more than a fair share of thinly veiled hostility. Blades considers this for a few moments. He studies the deck during the silence, then brings his eyes back up to regard Vandervere. "Seven hundred thousand. Keep in mind, you also got her commander and standing crew. We must replace the personnel." Vandervere counteroffers obstinately, "Six." Blades arches an eyebrow. "Dykstra not working out for you?" Dykstra smiles mockingly at Blades. Blades shrugs. "I'll go as low as six hundred and fifty thousand crebar. No less. My offer is incredibly reasonable, under the circumstances." Vandervere shakes his head. "The Centurion performs his duties admirably, but I'll not pay you for men who willingly left the Consortium. Six hundred and twenty five thousand crebars." Blades reaches across the table with his right hand. "Agreed." Vandervere clasps the hand and shakes it warmly. "Now then, let us discuss reperations for Mars and Sivad." Carter-DeVille, standing at attention like an exceptionally tall and Gothic lamp-post, glowers at both Vandervere and Blades - subtly of course, sienna-brown eyes stormy. At the conclusion of the deal, insofar as it goes, she again looks as if she wants to snort - and add a wad of spit to that. Blades nods, taking his seat once more. "Mars can lick its own wounds. We have enough to worry about on Earth without paying punitive damages. As for Sivad - the mutineer who sauntered off into Sivadian space with the Resistance paid with her life for her actions. I think we've paid plenty." Vandervere shakes his head and resumes his own seat. "If we're licking your wounds, then by God you'll lick ours. There will be no double standard at this table, Mr. Blades. The government of Earth will pay both Mars and Sivad the sum of five hundred thousand crebars each. For Sivad this will recompense them for the loss of funds and resources when the HDF encroached into their territory. For Mars, this will repay us for but a drop of the great loss in commerce due to your ill-conceived blockade." Dykstra advances back towartds the table standing a little behind and to the side of the First Consul. Blades laughs. "Now that is rich. You won't pay two million crebar for a destroyer, but you expect Earth to pay one million for some phantom damages? Please. Both Sivad and Mars are self-sufficient worlds. It's why a ground war would have been so damned impractical, pointless and bloody on Mars. Count yourself lucky, pay for the Falstaff and go home happy. I'm not demanding you turn over war criminals like Dykstra or Neidermeyer - and, by all rights, I should. The blockade was regrettable, yes, but quite toothless in the great scheme of things." Vandervere takes his own turn at bitter laughter. "Mr. Blades, it was anything but toothless. As was the impending invasion which in and of itself cost us millions. The Martian government looks out for its fellow members of humanity, and hence insists that you pay reparations to the Sivadians as well." Blades shakes his head. "No. Frankly, I think it's ludicrous to have you even bringing the Sivadians into this. I don't see their government represented at this table. As for Mars...well, I might see my way clear to cutting 100,000 crebar off the price of the Falstaff in recognition of your economic woes. Nevertheless, you should consider the economic impact part of the price of independence." Vandervere says, "Then by that same token, should you not consider the impact of the loss of the Falstaff a mere price of war? Hypocrisy has no place at negotiations, Mr. Blades." Blades chuckles. "Well, I might be swayed if you simply turned the Falstaff back over to us and went home *without* it. But I don't think that's bloody likely, do you?" Criminals? Why, then that would certainly add him to the list, but he was well aware of such things. Perhaps it is the English propriety he learned so well from his parents that allows him to keep his features a little more schooled, but inside he can't decide if he would rather laugh or cry. He doesn't even have illusion enough of being able to shake both Blades and Vandervere by the scruff for the picture to materialize in his mind's eye, but by all that he holds dear he would dearly like to shake them and remind them to act as human beings, not politicians. But then youth affords a man a certain idealism. Vandervere shakes his head. "It is most certainly not likely as I hardly think Galactix would allow you to abscond with it. The Martian people will be vindicated, Mr. Blades. After the hell you put us through, this is letting the Consortium off lightly." Blades chuckles. "Oh, now, First Consul, the Martian people aren't the ones you seek to vindicate at all. It's yourself. Your cause. Your comrades in the Martian Legions." He tilts his head slightly. "And I think the civilians on Earth will take a terribly dim view of an attempt by a renegade state that has already caused a cascade of pitfalls for the Solar Consortium to extort money from their pockets and food from their mouths. Let's keep in mind that we are entering into a rather severe recession on Earth. We can't really afford to subsidize your revolution." The tense, rigid contingent of Martian soldiers behind the two politicians remain as they are, this whole discussion the sole focus of their concentration now. Harrison's brows have knit together very slightly, his large ham-like hands twitching as if to curl them into tight fists. O'Keefe, an Amazon of a redhead with a perpetually pugnacious expression on her pale face, looks ready to glare bloody murder. Vandervere raises a finger in rapacious chiding. "Mr. Blades, your insults will get you nowhere. Your recession is a direct result of this idiocy, and prolonging it will only exacerbate your economic woes. You're doing no less than extortion to us with regards to the Falstaff." Blades shakes his head. "Not at all. Extortion would be demanding compensation for the Falstaff, the surrender of war criminals, the payment of fines and penalties for withdrawal from the Solar Consortium, and the payment of fines and penalties for engineering work on the proposed base in your orbit. Let us be clear on this: You wanted independence. The prior administrations sought to secure your loyalty. You resisted. They're dead and gone. I'm here now. I'm not them. I didn't make the calls they made, and I won't be punished for them, and I won't sell out the people of Earth in apology for those idiots. But I'll limit your compensation to what is just: The Falstaff. And I'll be happy to call it even from there." Vandervere notes in a tone as unmoving as iron, "Mr. Blades, Mars has already bought its freedom by having to suffer through this conflict which Earth began. You view this as selling out Earth. I view otherwise as selling out Mars. I hardly call it an equal proposition." Blades smiles darkly, lacing his fingers together. "For your five hundred and twenty five thousand crebar, First Consul, you buy your independence, your sovereignty, and your stolen destroyer. You buy an end to this conflict, and a brighter future for your people. It isn't selling them out. It's securing their safety. Certainly, we might consider trade incentives once this peace treaty is hammered out, but those are a separate issue entirely." Vandervere shakes his head, clasping hands before him on the table. "Those are things we already possess, Mr. Blades. Earth cannot afford war, but if Mars is forced to by future encroachment, it /will/ fight. The Consortium offers nothing to Mars from this which it does not already possess." Carter-DeVille's eyes narrow; it would seem that only iron discipline is what's keeping her from speaking her mind. But she stands very calmly and properly in her place, flanking Vandervere and giving Nash the evil eye enshrined in countless mythologies while periodically eyeing Blades with grim, scathing scrutiny. Blades lifts his eyebrows. "I said we couldn't afford a war on the ground, First Consul." Vandervere quirks an eyebrow. "The Human Defense Force is precisely that ... a /defense/ force. It is impractical as an invasion force, and should you attempt so much as a blockade, the Nall as well as other governments are willing to intervene. /Aliens/ are willing to enter the Solar System perhaps at the destruction of us all. If you are willing to consign all humanity to that fate, then so be it. Earth cannot afford /not/ to have peace at this point. You are in no position to make conditions of any kind, Mr. Blades." Blades nods, smiling faintly. "Oh, you think I'm threatening a blockade? An invasion? No. I am afraid you aren't dealing with my predecessors. You'll find I'm a bit more subtle in my dealings. There are other ways for Earth to rise from this setback without the by-your-leave of Mars, and without acknowledging its sovereignty. Naturally, you'll never want to launch the Falstaff when our patrols are about, but beyond that, we'd likely leave you alone unless provoked." Stand at attention. Think of nothing else. Like a mantra those two phrases run through Lambrick's head, the young man's best attempt to keep himself calm and show nothing but military discipline and composure. He can't quite grasp the point the First Consul is pushing, for it seems to change in position slightly ever once in a while, disagreement popping up suddenly where there seemed agreement a moment before. Staring straight ahead at the guards that had come with Blades, he distracts himself further by wondering what they must be thinking. He assumes were he in their shoes, he'd expect Blades to try walk away from this table with nothing short of complete victory, no matter how unreasonable that is. Vandervere notes, his eyes of pale blue flashing cannily, "And Mr. President, you reveal all too clear that you desire no peace. You desire either an agreement on your own terms or on none at all. That is not peace ... it is the same tyranny of your predecessors." Blades laughs mordantly. "My own terms? I've come down from two million to six hundred and twenty five to five hundred and twenty five thousand. Those are *your* terms, my good man. The fact that I'm not willing to agree to your unreasonable terms doesn't make me a tyrant. It just makes me less than the pushover perhaps you were hoping to meet." Vandervere exhales a tired sigh. "You may phrase it however you like, Mr. Blades. I frankly don't give a tinker's damn. I do not expect a pushover. What I /do/ expect is an attempt, however half-hearted at true, /equal/ peace. You are not even willing to look in that direction. I was willing to discuss the terms of the Falstaff with you, whereas you are not even willing to entertain reperations of any sort for Mars or Sivad, governments which have suffered greatly at the hands of the Consortium." And the rest of the Martian Legion security detail just - stands. Although, from the darkling looks that glower across almost all the assorted faces, the phrase 'Terminal Velocity' might just be given new meaning should this continue past, let's say, half an hour more. In the meantime, they stand guard with double alertness and watch. And wait. Blades shakes his head. "Sivad isn't represented here and has not approached me about this matter. As far as official channels are concerned, they don't have a problem." He quirks a smile at Vandervere. "But, if you truly wish to prove how willing you are to enjoy peace on equal footing, then consider this offer: Take the Falstaff free and clear. And forget any reparations for Mars. You want equal? Leave with what you brought, and take nothing more. We will recognize your sovereignty. We will let you be. Would that be suitable?" Vandervere nods in agreement, the faintest smile crossing his lips. "That would be, yes. It is not perhaps the peace which we would desire most of all, but it is /a/ peace, and something to build upon." Blades sighs, once more extending his hand across the table. He knits his brow. "Then consider it done. We will draft a treaty. Ambassador Kritin will deliver it to you for approval. One week hence, we will sign the treaty here. Agreeable?" Vandervere shakes the hand, a bit more warmly than last time. "Quite. I am pleased to see you're listening to reason, Mr. Blades. It is this sort of 'altruism for all' which will lead us to a lasting peace." Dykstra straightens as the two men shake hands. Blades nods. "Glad to see you're not just about personal profit, First Consul." He lifts his chin, releasing Vandervere's hand, then says, "I believe that concludes our business for this night." Vandervere clasps his hands behind his back and shoots a glance at the Centurion, signalling the desire for departure before turning back to the Consortium delegation and granting a curt nod. "It is, indeed. Until next week then, President Blades." Blades bows his head slightly, then straightens, watching the group depart. Dykstra turns, escorting the Consul back to the ship. Vandervere wastes little time in rising, boarding the Falstaff with his security detachment following. Dykstra enters an access code and boards the MRD Falstaff. Dykstra has left. The entire security contingent falls into line and marches smartly towards the Falstaff, boarding it once the ramp is reached. Carter-DeVille enters an access code and boards the MRD Falstaff. Carter-DeVille has left. Vandervere enters an access code and boards the MRD Falstaff. Vandervere has left. Blades turns toward Nash, smiling grimly. "So it is done." Nash looks to the president and shrugs "We'll see" Blades nods, his eyes going back toward the Falstaff. "Let's talk tomorrow. My office." Nash nods again "Very well Mr. President." The bay doors begin to slide open as the MRD Falstaff prerares for departure ... The MRD Falstaff fires its engines as it departs through the docking bay doors.